


Fortune smiles upon us

by Akichin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Beginnings, Breakfast, Brian is a sassy tease, Don’t take this too serious, Dorks in Love, Falling In Love, Freddie is supportive, Inaccuracies, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, POV Roger Taylor, POV Second Person, Questioning, This is bloody sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akichin/pseuds/Akichin
Summary: «I can’t understand how you do that damn thing of yours.»[...]Here it goes again - the toxic, sheepish smile, a silent“I don’t know what are you talking about”and a slight redness that colours his cheeks, making him more and more helpless.You didn’t expect a honest reaction like that one, but it’s too late - you know that your thoughts aren’t a particularly good example of heterosexuality, but it’s a truth you can’t hide:John Deacon is cute - not the same“cute”you probably use to describe a girl during a one-night stand, but the dangerous one; the“cute”that makes your knees weak, your now-finished cigarette on your right foot, and thanks God you’re sitting behind your drums, because it’s the only way you can shield yourself from his unintentional grace.An ordinary, yet perilous grace - risky in its anonymity and for the same reason, extraordinary in its normality; John isn’t the most beautiful person you’ve ever met, but he’s the only one who makes you feel like this.And no, it’s not a good sign, it’s not a good sign at all.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> English isn’t my first language, but I really tried my best for this...thing.  
> Ugh, enjoy the read.  
> (I really would like to write a non-chronological series, but tell me what you think about this!)

You understand, without any effort, how you’re getting terribly fond of that smile of his - a weak and natural wrinkle on his face and the way his eyes avoid everything, except for the movements of his own fingers on the bass.  
The truth is that you changed too many bassists in a year or so, but now you find something unique, unusual - but not in a bad way - in how he moves while playing, or in those few words that he tries to say just to be part of the band.  
And at the same time, you know - or at least, you can imagine - how it can be difficult to join a group of people who already know each other.  
He surely feels a bit of alienation, a naïve sense of solitude, but those are understandable emotions that every normal person feels at least once in their life - maybe not Freddie, since he’s a born-prima-donna.  
But the fact is that nor him, you or Brian are some kind of bloody elitists; contrariwise, you all love new experiences, unexpected beginnings as much as unpredicted conversations.  
In particular you, the man who hates normality, repetition and the slow tedium of the days that inevitably go by.  
You don’t want to die with regrets, with things that you might decide to forget, because there’s only one life and since it’s precious, you want to do and say something - just a word is enough - that may change the existence of another person near to you.

And at the beginning it’s hard to break the silence between you two - it’s atypical, unfamiliar, because you always have some silly words to say, but today Brian isn’t arrived yet and, obviously, neither Freddie.  
Still, you observe John in the centre of the room, his irides as always on his beloved bass with a particular aura that makes him ever more mysterious and indecipherable.  
At first sight, a month ago, you were wrong - he seemed such a common, boring boy back then, but now, with his simple silence, he petrifies you - Roger bloody Taylor, the chatty and annoying drummer -, but really, you just stay there for a couple of long minutes, your drum sticks in your sweaty hands and an almost finished cigarette between your dry lips.  
_Water, I need water_ \- that’s the only thing you can think about when he moves near to his amp and that elementary gesture makes you a bit rigid, as if you were expecting something, a sigh, a word, an insult - a something you don’t know.  
_Maybe not water, a beer_ \- a drink can’t defeat immediately the sense of uneasiness you’re feeling, you know it well, but even the shittiest beer can become a good distraction from this childish embarrassment.  
You’re a grown man, a usually cheeky bloody bastard and it’s impossible that an anonymous bassist can hinder your bad attitude.  
It’s final - you don’t accept it. You don’t accept it because you fought bigger problems than this, harder delusions, boring tasks, and that’s nothing special about your timid relationship with him.

«I can’t understand how you do that damn thing of yours.»  
You gulp, but while watching him straight in the eyes; cigarette ash falls on your trousers, a bit hot, unforeseen, but you just ignore it, too much concentrate on the expression painted on John’s face.  
Here it goes again - the toxic, sheepish smile, a silent _“I don’t know what are you talking about”_ and a slight redness that colours his cheeks, making him more and more helpless.  
You didn’t expect a honest reaction like that one, but it’s too late - you know that your thoughts aren’t a particularly good example of heterosexuality, but it’s a truth you can’t hide:  
John Deacon is cute - not the same “ _cute_ ” you probably use to describe a girl during a one-night stand, but the dangerous one; the “ _cute_ ” that makes your knees weak, your now-finished cigarette on your right foot, and thanks God you’re sitting behind your drums, because it’s the only way you can shield yourself from his unintentional grace.  
An ordinary, yet perilous grace - risky in its anonymity and for the same reason, extraordinary in its normality; John isn’t the most beautiful person you’ve ever met, but he’s the only one who makes you feel like this.  
And no, it’s not a good sign, it’s not a good sign at all.  
«I don’t really know what are you talking about. You mean the bassline? I’m good, but nothing spectacular. At least, not yet.»  
Another timorous smile and a lock of hair that now hides a hint of uncertainty, as if he doesn’t exactly know what to add next - the silence comes again, abruptly and stifling, but even if you want to fight it, you’re not sure to have the right strength to use against it.  
«Actually I was talking about your...»  
You mimic a smile, aware that in no case it can be similar or identical to his - there is too much distance between you and him, the lack of your impertinence, impulsivity and genuine stubbornness - he may have them too, you don’t know him well - _not yet_ \- but his is not predictable formality, but something more lies behind the appearances - a detail that you may have to discover with patience, day by day.  
You’re not used to wait, endurance and perseverance are qualities you have only when you’re playing, but maybe they can become useful for other things too.  
Knowing a person, discovering his flaws, his bad habits - _what does he usually eat for breakfast? Does he even smoke?_ Stupid questions, surely, but you can’t expect to start right from the top.  
You don’t even know what you want from him, _or maybe you know_ , but you’re too ashamed to admit it.  
It’s a thorny topic, something you never considered before, but you bet that Brian and Freddie understood that already; and no, this doesn’t make the situation more bearable.

And speaking of the devil - the other two musicians arrive, opening the door in a theatrical manner - typical for Freddie - and Brian follows him, with a strange and content smile that you rarely saw before.  
«Darlings, I hope we didn’t interrupt anything, but now we need to work. If we’re queens, we have to earn the title, right?»  
And with that, John turns to the front and a sense of emptiness looms over you.

♛♛♛

  
You finally see him smoking, one morning, while you’re both waiting Freddie to wake up; three hot cups of coffee are on the table that divide you and you just drink a sip to clear your throat, even if your eyes don’t move away from the face of the other.  
A sleepy face makes him more silent than usual, but you don’t find that irritating because, strangely, you’re not in a mood to talk and Brian is the one who fill that void among you.  
He doesn’t know what you’re thinking about, but he gives you a disoriented look, as if he knows that something it’s wrong with you today, but doesn’t know exactly what is it yet.  
And, honestly, you really don’t what to talk about it - first, because John is exactly there with you -, and also because you don’t like to open yourself too much about this kind of tricky subject, even if Brian is your friend and you trust him with your life.  
He may tease you a little for your maybe-it’s-a-crush issue, but that’s not the point that worries you; the fact is that you don’t believe in love at first sight - that’s bollocks for sentimental people -, but at the same time you don’t know well that damn John Deacon.  
You try to make a list in your head and only a few, obvious things about him pop up - useful, but nothing new or striking.  
You discovered a couple of days ago that he alternates coffee and tea everyday in a specific order, a detail that you really don’t understand, but he’s doing it even today, without any biscuits or other shitty food Brian decided to share.  
You also understood, accidentally, that he listened to a lot of soul music back in the days, at school, and between you two it’s exactly - and only - all about music.  
Your past conversation remained interrupted and a part of you would like to start it all over again, but you catch a glimpse of habitual shyness in his eyes, now that you look at him lazily.  
Probably the tiredness hasn’t left your bodies yet, but at least Brian is trying, really, to make your breakfast a bit more busy.  
«How’s your semester doing?»  
Brian asks kind, a bite to a roasted toast and then, after a long, too long second, one pair of eyes judge him silently.  
«You don’t really want to talk about university at 8.00 a.m., Brian. Fucking please.»  
You reply harshly, a behaviour that he knows very well and, in fact, he doesn’t seem offended, but it’s John’s reaction that catches you off guard.  
Is it really an enjoyed grin the thing you’re seeing on his face? Or is it just a bittersweet morning illusion?  
«Well, actually, it isn’t that bad. It’s not probably exciting as playing with you guys, but at least, if you’ll ever kick me out, I’m sure to have a degree.»  
He murmurs sarcastic, while taking a drag from his cigarette; then a puff of smoke leaves his lips and you think it’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever seen, even if there’s nothing special about that gesture.  
It’s just...him, that half innocent - half ironic appearance that makes you weak and you hate being a sappy because you know yourself well; you wasn’t born for this kind of rubbish and you won’t change simply because you can restrain a stupid crush. Or whatever the hell it is.  
«I don’t even remember what you’re graduating in.»  
You try to seem disinterested, but you really don’t remember it - a detail that you surely spoke about during his audition, but you have a bad memory for formalities.  
You may feel a little bad about it, but you didn’t forget on purpose - obviously not! -, but then he answers with one of those little smile of his, like if he’s the one who feels mortified.  
«Electronic engineering. A common choice, I think.»  
You can’t understand if he’s trying to diminish himself, but you don’t agree because a mainstream choice doesn’t necessarily mean an easy or boring life.  
«Well, I can assure that there’s nothing extraordinary in Biology neither, but I like it, and that’s enough for me.»  
«Surely it is, Rog. Even if...isn’t it strange to imagine him as a biologist? He’s not so responsible. He creeps me out a little, sometimes.»  
That’s Brian who’s talking, he just ignores you, chit chatting about you and your life with John, as if it’s funny to describe you like a bad guy.  
And okay, you may be a _little_ indisciplined, but in that moment you kick his leg under the table, natural and impulsive - and now they both know that you’re being a bitch about it.  
Brian’s eyes are on you and an exchange of glances is enough to him to understand what you’re thinking - _Aw, you like him, right?_ \- his eyes are telling you, but you just avoid his stupid game, watching that funny expression on John’s face instead.  
You don’t like to feel so vulnerable, but it’s clear that he didn’t catch a thing about all this story, and you’re relaxed, a little more than before.  
And you observe it again and again, that peculiar, outlandish aura of his - a bit wondrous, intoxicating, even sublime. You usually don’t care about details like these, but John is really something - a puzzle that keeps you focused because you don’t want to miss a thing about him.  
And yes, you’re being sappy again, but what can you do with a pretty face like that? It’s his fault, surely not yours. Or least, you’re trying to justify yourself and you’re too aware of the situation.  
A bloody annoying situation, but that’s it. You’re absolutely fucked.

«Anyway;» you clear your throat loudly, drinking the last sip of the now-too-cold coffee; «that’s his version of the story. I’m actually a very wise, mature person, and that’s why you all love my presence. You can’t find another drummer like me, after all.»  
You grin at John in a little too much cocky way, a flirtatious hint that, unexpectedly, makes him blush a little - and then you’re sure, you’ve just won him over.  
«I swear, John, forgive him; he’s not always a narcissistic arsehole, but you’ll get use to this.»  
But  dear John Deacon doesn’t seem to care and this makes you childishly happy.

♛♛♛

 

«He’s been our new bassist for less than...what, two months? And you’ve already thinking to fuck him. I never expected that from you, Roger Taylor.»  
For a brief moment Freddie’s voice frighten you, a cold whisper in a loud pub, murmured words near your ears while all round the chaos reigns supreme; there are hundreds of people - clumsy, sweaty with their head-splitting screams and cheering for an anonymous band on the stage.  
But even in that anarchic mess, you immediately recognise Freddie’s voice and you naively think he’s serious until you notice a tiny, malicious smile on his lips.  
He’s teasing you as only he can do and in his gaze you a catch a glimpse of obviousness, like he already know it all.  
And that’s terrific and horrible at the same time; this new, abrupt realisation makes your body tremble, adrenalin in your veins and a hidden desire to shout how much stupid you’ve been, idiot and blatant, and then, neither a bottle of beer or a cigarette can keep you calm.  
«Have you seen his bloody smile, Freddie? It’s surely illegal somewhere.»  
You mumble, the alcohol begins to make all your face hot and you’re probably blushing like a 14-year-old girl too, but Freddie is a good friend and he doesn’t seem to care how you’re embarrassing yourself in front of him.  
«And what are you going to do with our gorgeous Deaky?»  
This time he whispers without malice, it’s a legit and simple question, but it destabilises you, as if it’s a matter of life or death.  
It may be a difficult situation, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before - you kissed many people, had rhapsodical, tumultuous sex - but love is different and you don’t even know how to call what you’re feeling right now.  
«It’s the band, Freddie. I don’t want to screw everything up only for a one-night stand.»  
«It doesn’t seem like one of your crazy nights at all, but if you say so...»  
He shrugs his shoulders with that typical elegance of his and you may know that he’s not wrong, even if it’s not so easily to admit out loud.  
And you also know that you can’t ask an opinion about it because, obviously, Freddie will support you no matter what; or rather, he seems to cheer for you in a strange way and this doesn’t actually help you.  
«Should I make a move on him? I want to make a move on him.»  
It’s more a drunken monologue than a real conversation, but Freddie smiles in his malicious way again and this is the moment when you understand that he won’t stop you. Not now. Never.  
«No one lives forever, I guess, so let the goddess Fortune guides you.»  
You’re heading to the exit when he grasps kindly your arm, bringing you again near his face to add the last words.  
«And I want to know how it goes.»

♛♛♛

 

A feeble glow falls on John’s face - there, exactly there, when he’s standing, under a forsaken street light, leaning with a shoulder against an empty telephone box.  
He’s speaking with someone, the handset near his ear - but from this distance you can only see briefly his lips moving; it’s hard to catch a glimpse of the conversation and it may be a bittersweet illusion, but you recognise a timid _“I love you_ ” - a whisper that you shouldn’t have heard, but your feet are moving fast and you can’t control yourself.  
You walk on the slightly wet street and you see your own reflection on the black asphalt - only puffy blond hair and two pair of tired eyes.  
_That’s true_ \- you think - _I may have drank too much tonight, but at this moment, it’s really late to care._  
Your heart beats a little more fast when the call it’s over, John casually turns towards your direction and there’s no surprise nor shock in his eyes; only one of his best expressions: pursed lips with that respectable shyness of his.  
A thing that you’re addicted to - and now you accept it without problems.  
Probably you were wrong a couple of days ago; it was the contrary, he was him, that common John Deacon, in fact, to have won you over.  
You’re the victim and you consider it an attack to your big ego - something you will get used to. At least, if everything is alright between you two.

«You’ve been looking for me, right?»  
«How do you know?»  
That’s the stupidest thing you can ask to him, but you’re getting nervous and it’s unusual for a man who’s used to adapt to every occasion. You always trust your instinct, your impulsive inner voice that is saying to go forward, forward to whatever achievement you’re longing for.  
You don’t like to wait, but you’re trying strangely to buy some time.  
Time for what? That’s an untold mystery.  
«Well, it seems that we left some loose ends about a week ago.»  
You discover a new thing about him - he’s a meticulous bastard, someone who remembers every little, insignificant detail - and you’re conflicted because you’re not sure if this peculiarity makes him more lovely to your eyes.  
It’s madness, but at the same time it can’t be considerate a flaw, so...  
«I don’t know if I should say it now.»  
You show a weakness that you don’t accept lightly, but John, dear John, he seems sympathetic as if he’s in your same situation.  
That wouldn’t be completely strange, but him - _him_! - having a crush on a sarcastic, bad arse like you? That’s totally crazy.  
Then there’s that secret “I love you” on the phone, a more suitable soulmate may wait for him at home and, that’s a fact, only abnormal people would choose you instead of a clichéd and stable relationship.  
And John doesn’t exactly seem a man who loves irrational adventures, something you completely understand because you’re the more immature, between the two and you don’t want to drag him down.  
Or maybe you desire it a bit, a useless wish, against your “the band is a priority”, but all this doesn’t make you feel bad because - that’s right! - life is unique and there’s not enough time for bollocks and regrets.  
Or better, not in your life.

«I think it’s not necessary. You were, how can I say it? Very honest to me?»  
So you were the stupid one since the beginning - that‘ s what he’s saying in a very emphatic way, but the funny aspect is that, yes you should feel offended, but his correctness doesn’t bother you at all.  
It makes things unexpectedly easy for both.  
«But the call...»  
«Oh;» He sighs, blushing a bit; you think it’s a bad sign, but decide to let him speaking - it’s his life, after all; «actually, that was just my mother.»  
There’s something extremely silly in the way his voice cracks while confessing it - a genuine shame because he may think he’s too grown-up to call his mother, but, honestly, you consider it cute.  
And as always, not the same “cute” you’d probably use to describe a date with a fine girl, one of those who any family would accept immediately; no, John is different, he deserves someone different and that’s what makes him unique.  
He and all the things you still haven’t learned about him, his silences, his love for music and, most important, that toxic, sheepish smile, again and again.

 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> «I like you too.»  
> You blatantly confess, realising too late what you’ve just said. His face may be a little more flushed than before, but you’re feeling the same, too embarrassed to even make one of your stupid jokes.  
> «I mean, I like _that part_ of you too. You’re smart and...you find always the right thing to say.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert broken English meme here*  
> This is my present for the last day of this shitty year. Happy 2019!  
> I'll probably write a sequel/a thing with John's POV, but let me know what you think about this first.  
> Enjoy.

The kitchen smells of vanilla, cinnamon and berries - an unusual mix of scents that awakes your senses and, even if you’re not a morning person, all this makes you childishly happy without any good reason.  
You feel something unique in the air and you look out the window for a brief moment, watching how the snow is tenderly falling on the streets.  
Your car is covered by a veil of white immaculate snowflakes, but it would be useless to clean it already, so you just stay there, immobile, observing how the winter makes the town disappear in its coldness.  
You’ve never been a great fan of this period of the year, but your idea is slowly changing every time you wake up like this, carefree and a bit shy, because finally there’s someone who’s waiting for you somewhere.  
You remember it well, you started to long for these quiet mornings a couple of weeks ago: Brian and Freddie asleep in their respective rooms and, without making any noise, John already in the kitchen, even when the sun hasn’t risen yet.  
  
And he’s here today too, too busy with a book to hear you coming, but you don’t interrupt his read, watching him like a sort of surreal, impressionist picture.  
You’re not an art expert, but you surely know what beauty is - and that’s a fact: you have a thing for those slim fingers of his, the way he flips silently every page, biting his lips a bit when he finds a point too hard to remember.  
You’re both intrigued and terrified by his cleverness, well hidden behind the quiet personality; sometimes he may continue to seem a normal bassist to your eyes, but he’s not, absolutely.  
Contrariwise, you fall for him more and more everyday - for those little, seemingly innocuous things he does when you’re around - and you don’t know yet if he’s conscious of what he does to you, if he likes to play with your heart in an atypical, sadistic way.  
And you passively accept your role as a love victim because, _damn_ , it’s too late now and knowing that he shares the same emotion with you makes you even more mad.  
You’re not alone for this crazy ride and, in fact, your limitless ego becomes bigger when you make him blush - shyly as usual, with those cheeks of his coloured by a soft, toxic shade of pink.  
And then there are his messy hair, his sleepy face too - he’s cute even if outside the sky is still dark, the day isn’t properly started yet, but he’s softly killing you already.  
Only a feeble light touches his face, caressing his jawline, the tip of his nose, and you get yourself inebriated by this dreamlike imagine, accompanied by the familiar scent of black coffee and breakfast tea in your nostrils.  
  
He finally notices you when your stomach growls in the silence, impatient to eat whatever John decided to cook this morning; he’s the responsible one and you’re just glad that someone in the apartment thinks about the well-being of the band.  
«Hey.»  
The first and only thing you manage to say while trying to put yourself together, but John gives you a smile, as if he finds something funny in your thick, tremulous voice.  
You’re just tired and you haven’t the strength to reply to his sarcastic game yet - like a car’s engine, you need to warm up a bit first.  
«Good morning, Roger.»  
He replies, closing his book as if he finally found something more entertaining to do - that simple gesture flatters you a little, but you decide to stay silent, enjoying the temporary, peaceful moment between you two.  
Then, without asking, John stands up and takes the coffee machine - he’s so used to your breakfast together now, so much that he doesn’t need requests or orders any more.  
He gets your favourite mug from the cupboard and you observe him silently - maybe a bit embarrassed by the familiarity you now share.  
You don’t know when it all began, but now you seem like one of those freshly married couples, an harmonious balance too much perfect to be real. You rarely argued in the last few days, and knowing yourself, you’re sure that the ‘ _happy-living phase_ ’ won’t last long.  
You just can’t be quiet for the sake of another person and, even if you trust John with your own life, your feelings for him are yet to be discovered deeply.  
And you mean this because it’s obvious how you’re fond of him, but you need to be sure - no instinct and other impulsive bollocks - that you won’t do any wrong move.  
There is again a wall of formalities between you, things you have to explore yet, unknown details of his life and about yours too - because the only thing you still have in common is the bloody Queen, no more or less.  
«I was thinking.»  
You abruptly whisper, hiding a silly sense of nervousness behind a cocky grin, typical of yours; John isn’t so stupid and it’s getting easier to him to understand all your ways to avoid embarrassment.  
He just...understands you more than he should and you always feel a bit too much exposed, as if it’s useless, at this point, to act as the disinterested person you actually are not. At least, not always - and more important, _never with him._  
  
«I was thinking too. _About us_ , I mean.»  
A murmured confession that hushes you both - both flushed and confused; _real men don’t talk about these soppy issues_ , that’s what you’re thinking, but John is the most honest and he prefers a mature confrontation rather than avoiding the topic.  
You have to reach a point, soon or later, and lying about your thing - you don’t know again how to call it - is the stupidest choice you can make.  
_We’re both adults_ \- you say to yourself, trying to convince the part of you that is still reluctant to follow this explosion of feelings.  
It’s not normal yet - all the ‘having a thing for a guy when you always liked cute, shapely girls’, but you watch John straight in the eyes and you acknowledge the fact that he won’t, _never in his life_ , become what you always dreamed of.  
_He’s a man_ \- another human being physically more similar to you than you’ve ever thought, but the problem is yours alone; no fault in John being as he always is.  
Too patient, yet unpredictably dangerous - it took no time to get acclimated to his behaviour and now, if you think about it a little more, you cannot but wonder if it’s all worth it.  
You know the answer and that’s what scares you the most.  
  
«I’m probably not used to...you know.»  
You nervously gesture with your hand, hoping it’s enough to explain what you’re thinking - you want it all: the risk of daily exposure, sharing intimacies, accepting things you’d probably consider annoying in other people, but it’s a serious commitment, not something to be taken lightly. _Not this time. Not with him._  
«Neither do I. Be aware that I’m not exactly an exciting person, that’s all.»  
He murmurs quietly, sitting next to you with your coffee finally ready; your hands touch for a brief moment, skin against skin, and that’s the first time you share a direct contact with him - so simple and natural, but you already know that you’ll think about it for the rest of the day.  
_What an idiot._  
«You’re part of a rock band, you can’t be _that_ boring, John.»  
His name slips from your lips in a gentle way that doesn’t belong to your personality at all; it just happens against your will, giving up in front of that soft expression of his.  
He wasn’t asking for a praise, but you felt the urge to say one of your stupid, banal things - a bizarre attempt to sound friendly or flirtatious, you don’t even know.  
«Never said boring.»  
He hits you with a playful, unexpected smile and you stay silent, bewitched by how his gaze disappears behind his lowered lashes; for a moment you hold your breath and then, here they come - his curious eyes on you again, watching you as if they knows how to see right through you, how to turn your soul upside down.  
« _Ordinary_ is the right word.»  
You don’t agree, even if you don’t know him properly yet - you just don’t fall for _ordinary people_ \- there must be something else - your inner voice is never wrong about others.  
«Well, John _“ordinary”_ Deacon, since we’re on the topic, you should know a thing about me too.»  
_I’m not always an arsehole, I can be a serious person, really_ \- and a lot of other half-truths that you want him to know because you both deserve honesty to make it works.  
So you just wait a question, a random request, trying to hide a small sense of nervousness behind your warm and so-needed mug.  
  
Damn, he makes great coffee too. You’ll add this on your list of the reasons why you like him - and it’s becoming unexpectedly long, not that you feel sorry for it.  
  
«I don’t like to ask and you’re honest anyway, so I don’t need an interrogation to know you better.»  
He tilts his head a little, watching something you can’t see behind the table; there’s a reserved aura around him - the same you discovered a couple of weeks ago, that makes you feel disoriented again, as if you abruptly run out of words.  
There’s so much more you want to say, chatty and insistent as only you can be, but being obvious to his eyes is what worries you the most now.  
After all, you’re Roger Taylor, the usually eye-catching, unruled drummer, unpredictable and full of surprises - not complicated nor a too easy to read man, but you probably underestimated John’s abilities.  
«Only two possibilities left then: I’m an open book or you’re the smart one here.»  
«Why not both? A sincere personality is a rare trait. And rare doesn’t mean bad, Roger.»  
Your name kindly falls from his lips, a warm breath against your cheeks and only now you notice how you’re incredibly close to each other, so much that you can catch every, little detail on his face.  
_Has he always had those mesmerising greyish eyes? Since when does he brush his hair behind his ears like that?_  
You can’t find a sure answer and it’s too late to care about your past negligence; what matters now is that John is exactly in front of you - near, yet so far, as if that mysterious aura of his is keeping you away.  
You have to fight a little more to win him over completely, but he was right before - just a gaze is enough, you’re really becoming so obvious, and that’s something you can’t hide behind an usual cocky expression.  
«What I’m trying to tell you is that I like your being frank. You just say what you think.»  
It’s the first time he praises you, rosy cheeks and a bite of lips, but at the moment he looks you straight in his eyes, focused and immovable, as if he’s finally accepting to being exposed, vulnerable to you.  
It’s a silent _“we’re in this together”_ , and this is the only thing you really need to hear for now, knowing that you’ll discover new things about him day by day - even if you usually can’t bear a slow pace.  
That is his only rule between you two - he’s not asking for more and you’re going to respect it.  
«I like you too.»  
You blatantly confess, realising too late what you’ve just said. His face may be a little more flushed than before, but you’re feeling the same, too embarrassed to even make one of your stupid jokes.  
«I mean, I like _that part_ of you too. You’re smart and...you find always the right thing to say.»  
Take a breath and the last sip of the mug disappears in your mouth; it’s probably one of the best breakfast you’ve ever had in a while, but you don’t say it out loud.  
  
«But you can ask me anything you want, really.»  
«I’ll keep it in mind.»  
John smiles at you again, as he always does, and you find something extremely bittersweet in this quiet and snowy morning.  
Maybe it’s the taste of the coffee, the good company- and you don’t feel tired any more.  
  
 

♛♛♛

  
Brian catches you as a lion finds it’s daily prey, a disappointed grin on his face and his eyes are silently telling _“you did a bad move again, as usual”_ \- and for a moment you have to think about what he’s referring to because you have plenty of bollocks to hide everyday. It’s your job and you’re proudly good at it.  
«I can explain.»  
The first, generic thing you always say to him - the problem is that he knows you too well and there are no excellent excuses between you two any more; you don’t even know why he’s angry, but you recognise that expression and even his curls seem to be mad at you.  
A kind of angry, rockstar version of Medusa - except for the snakes part, but you feel the same dangerous aura around him.  
«Yes, I broke my snare again, but you know how I am when I’m playing. I will pay for it, no money from the band, I swear.»  
His eyebrows raise a little, unsure and perplexed, because those words aren’t what he was waiting for, but at the same time, he doesn’t believe that you’ll really pay for your kit. You already broke your drum sticks months ago - it happens quite a lot - and you don’t like to spend your own money for trivial things.  
These are the sacrifices of a soon-to-be famous rock drummer - you long for the glory, but for the cash too, of course.  
«And okay, I have to fix the coffee machine too, _again_ , but John can do it this time. Isn’t he a bloody engineer, after all?-  
«Yes, let’s talk about John.»  
A pause. A long pause.  
Brian gives you a look and you watch him back, slowly realising that he’s asking about _that_ , not the problem with the coffee machine, but the story between you and Deacon, _that precise story_ that should have been a secret and you can’t but wonder how is bloody possible that Brian knows about it.  
You’re sure that John kept his mouth shut, they only talk about boring, geeky things the whole time when they’re together and it’s very unlikely that Brian understood that the feeling is now mutual.  
«Are you having second thoughts about him? He’s a solid bassist, that’s what the band need and I play well with him.»  
You try to change the topic in a swirly, elegant way - there’s always room for a quiet conversation about music and you know that Brian is always into technical, mature debates about it - actually, it’s a normal trait of his personality, such a guitarist of great stature.  
«So you call it _playing well_ now? Did you ‘play well’ with your former girls too?»  
A bit too much aggressive for your taste, he knows that you’re not exactly a gallant or polite person - contrariwise, you’re always ready for a messy fight, even if arguing with him makes you mad rather than amused.  
You’re good friends, something that won’t change - _never_ -, but you’re not kids any more, you don’t need his advice, his being rational and boring - this is your own life, your choice.  
«Wait, Brian. I-Wait, it’s not the same thing. I didn’t mean in _that_ way, I-»  
But only a loser could reply to his accusation with that tremolous voice and even if you can’t believe it, _you’re that loser_ \- all of a sudden embarrassed by the realisation that in the eyes of others, John isn’t so different from the girls you’ve been with.  
But you know that’s not true, he’s more than one of those chicks who shared a night with you; he’s the smartarse who can hush you with a single gesture, a good listener and, probably, the best bassist you’d ever have. And this means a lot to you, as a musician too, of course.  
«I won’t mess up this time, I swear.»  
«Sure, nothing new. The same bollocks you always say.»  
He rolls his eyes, something you don’t agree with, but he’s not wrong and he has legitimate reasons for his arrogance; you haven’t a valid argument in response to it and this sense of hopelessness makes you mad because, for God’s sake, you’re Roger Meddows-Taylor, always the same wild man, with that proud Cornish blood in your veins and an ego that can’t be stopped easily.  
And Brian knows it too - he knows it too well.  
«You wanted a bassist, you got a bassist.»  
Arms crossed and your fiercest expression painted on your face - you won’t scare him, but these are your last words; no need for useless conversations or other arguments; Brian probably won’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, you’re not seeking for his understanding, even if a part of you would appreciate it.  
  
And then, you’re ready to go, but he stops you again - less mad, but more confused, a way to say that you haven’t replied to all his questions yet.  
He’s still grabbing your arm, not forcefully, but a deep sense of uncertainty darkens his eyes, something you rarely see when you’re together.  
He’s always been the serious one, but now in his gaze you recognise more than simply sobriety and maturity - discomfort, uneasiness, as if he’s feeling ashamed of something he did to you and, similarly, disappointed in you too for a reason you don’t catch at all.  
«Rog, you know you can talk about... _this_ with me, right?»  
A gesture to explain what he’s referring to, but it’s only a vague nod of his head, a now shy expression followed by a moment of silence, a long - suffering - moment.  
He’s indirectly saying that you could’ve confessed it sooner, that weeks ago he thought it was a joke and you remember only now that day - when you had breakfast, speaking lazily about your studies.  
And probably yes, back then it was a silly crush, but times changed and the relationship with John made a step forward in a way you still have to understand completely.  
«If not with me, Fred would be better. About the issue, your se-»  
«Don’t say it. I ain’t queer.»  
Absolutely not. Impossible. That would be hilarious: _Roger Taylor swings that way._  
Just the thought of it makes you genuinely giggle; one of those bright laughters of yours echoes in the room and you avert your eyes, watching your drums.  
Too far to hide behind it, yet so close because the room now seems smaller, as if its walls are trying to crush you, beating you down — with an abrupt, suffocating sensation you can’t explain.  
It’s an unusual sense of anxiety and disillusionment — a truth that you don’t want to accept. Not today nor tomorrow or in the days to come.  
«To be honest, you have plenty of flaws, loving other boys is the least of your problems.»  
«Wow, thanks for the help, Brian. This reassures me a lot.»  
You manage to smile, sarcastic and brash as always, and he follows you with a more relaxed expression painted on his face.  
«I mean it. There’s no problem for me, except for the well-being of the band. We won’t fired him if things go wrong.»  
«Not even if he’ll break my poor heart? We’re a team, Brian, you should stay on my side.»  
He just rolls his eyes, pushing you a little and you fake a betrayed expression, while glad to know he won’t make a fuss about all this story again.  
He’s a good friend; he’s a good friend even if you usually don’t say it out loud — too much manly pride between you two.  
  
«Poor heart? I don’t even know how is bloody possible that he returns your feelings.»  
«I’m an excellent drummer. That’s enough to love me.»  
But he just closes the door shut, leaving you alone in the room. Obviously, he envies your greatness.  
 

♛♛♛

>   
>  _{I practice every day to find some clever lines to say_  
>  _To make the meaning come through_  
>  _But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late and I'm alone with you}_  
>  Marvin Gaye ft. Tammi Terrell – Something Stupid

  
You shut quietly the door of the studio, leaving behind you the frosty air of the winter and the noisy chatter of the passersby.  
It’s a late afternoon like many others - that’s what you’re telling to yourself, although you can’t explain this vacuous feeling, a sense of emptiness that is following you for a couple of hours now.  
It starts to fade a bit when you’re welcomed by a warm, almost soothing atmosphere - with an usual smell of tobacco and a soft murmur in the air that you don’t recognise immediately.  
The serene voice echoes within the walls, a succession of musical notes far from being perfect, but you find it comforting, an unexpected deterrence for your intrinsic restlessness - even if, just a moment later, your heart skips a beat, like a metronome that changes its own rhythm without notice.  
You know yourself enough to acknowledge that it’s not a habit nor an innate characteristic of your personality - you’re not into those sentimental bollocks so loved by others, of honeyed words or pompous gallantry.  
You’re the bloody knobhead that ends up in trouble easily, the stubborn guy who gets the last word and with the same insolent mouth that finds disgracing even to say ‘sorry’ once.  
  
But then, you see _Him_ , you hear _Him_ \- his trembling voice, the same messy hair and slim fingers, now busy with an old amp you don’t even remember.  
He’s following the quiet rhythm of a soul song you don’t recognise and, to be honest, you don’t care about it at all - since you’re just find something that deserves your attention more.  
It’s him, _John Deacon in all his ordinary presence_ , laying on his stomach in the middle of the room, with a pair of tight trousers that makes your head spin a little.  
He hasn’t heard you coming yet and, as happened previously, you don’t interrupt his work, watching him for too long.  
You’re becoming a creep day by day, that’s for sure, however you can’t help but observe him in these moments of spontaneity; it’s a way to peek in his life - so reserved and enigmatic -, to know a part of him, _the part of him_ that he usually doesn’t share with the band.  
You should feel bad, but your innate curiosity lives for details like these: for his smart abilities with electronic things, for his humming too, even if he’s not a good singer at all; and you can’t stop now, _you just can’t_ , following with your eyes every inch of his body.  
You think about your past conversation with Brian, about the fact that England has plenty of girls who would enjoy an easy one night-stand without stupid implications or worries, but your mind is already elsewhere - there, full of pictures of timid and coy smiles, quick looks and innocuous bites of lips that you may have sexualised more than necessary.  
John is far from what you’d consider interesting, yet a week ago he was right and wrong at the same time: he isn’t boring, but you don’t agree with the _‘I’m not an exciting person’_ consideration.  
Or better, your...private parts don’t agree at all with it.  
  
«Are you planning to stay there for long, just watching me?»  
The soft tune is interrupted by John’s voice - a tender, yet sarcastic whisper that makes your body shiver a bit, embarrassed and speechless, because you’re feeling exactly like one of those teen boys caught with some nasty secrets by their parents - trapped without a decent excuse in mind.  
You could lie, tell that you weren’t, in fact, observing him like some kind of creepy stalker, but what would be the point?  
He’s always a step ahead, he reads you easily like one of those books he always carries around, and you don’t know yet if you should be mad at his cleverness or falls for it even more.  
And on top of that, John said that he likes your bluntness, but as time goes by, there’s nothing worse than being obvious, predictable.  
It makes you feel so damn unguarded and for you, for the devilish Roger Taylor, this isn’t acceptable at all.  
«You know what, John?»  
Before continuing, you light a cigarette, watching the faint flame disappear after a brief _‘click’_ of the lighter; you try to buy some time, but the words are already there - in your throat, pushing for their legitimate space on your dry lips.  
Then a deep breath, the taste of tobacco in your mouth and a wisp of smoke forestalls your next confession.  
«I think you do _this_ on purpose.»  
You let yourself slip on the floor gently until you’re exactly next to him, laying on your side as if everything outside the room doesn’t matter any more.  
Just the two of you, a melancholic ballad in the background and the ticking sound of his hand at work - he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around to look at you, but you can see it, that bloody grin of his.  
«Doing what? I’m fixing this amp, as you can see.»  
«You know exactly what I’m talking about.»  
It follows a pause filled with a sense of expectation that makes you feel dizzy, light-headed, even if you’ve never been so sober as you are now.  
It’s again all about his silences, that well balanced placidity of his - so toxic to your already-weak-patience, but there’s nothing you really hate about John’s game.  
He’s trying to drive you mad, again, in an eternal loop of well considered words, and you just stay there - sucking your cigarette’s smoke in your lungs as if you’re ready to die one of these days.  
Not because of tar, but for that John ordinary Deacon. A worthy death - observing him in absolute quietude.  
The feeble light of the room runs through his face, his features with the shape of the nose, the lines of his curled lips and your mind is itching to touch him, to feel how smooth or warm is his skin right now.  
«What do you expect me to do?»  
He asks quietly and a proper answer isn’t a simple thing to find; this may explain the shy gesture of your hand, finally, so slow and almost imperceptible until your thumb sinks against his now flushed cheek, tracing the marks of his dimples.  
And he, _Deaky_ , finally looks at you, now so close you recognise your own reflection in his eyes - fascinating, hard to understand, because he seems surprised by that intimate touch, yet he doesn’t withdraw from it.  
Then his expression speaks silently, words are not needed, it’s written there on his face.  
The same sheepish smile that makes you feel weak again and even if you can’t hide behind your drums this time, you’re glad that you’re both laying on the ground.  
«I may have an idea.»  
A dauntless whisper escapes from you and John doesn’t speak, not a sign nor a nod - he just squints his eyes, breathing quietly against you; he’s savouring the moment, so much that you can almost hear his head thinking.  
Indecision, intimacy and a bit of unusual rashness - they ran fast in that immense mind of his, but you glimpse only the tip of it because, you now know, there will be always things you won’t understand, things he will never tell you.  
And that’s okay - you reassure yourself - that’s the way you trust each other and that’s how you find a rare equilibrium.  
  
But soon, the cloud of thoughts vanishes and it’s your turn, now, to feel a little surprised, astonished by his fierce quietness, expressed by a long, so-desired touch.  
A kiss that tastes of you, tobacco and the bittersweet aroma of coffee on his lips, impetuous, a calm explosion of all the feelings you both bottled up in these last few weeks. They are all there, with your boldness and his peaceful expression.  
You can’t - you don’t want to close your eyes, even if he’s not looking at you right now; that’s better, without useless shame or shyness, you can observe freely the slight tremor of his eyelashes, the soft redness of his cheeks and the last details of his face that you may had miss previously.  
And you’re honest with yourself - there are plenty, _tons_ of girls who may are a better companion than him, more lovely-dovey, someone to have a future, a family with, but you just don’t give a shit about being a perfect man.  
You don’t want to become one of those quiet, family-friendly boyfriend; you’re not like that, even if you don’t understand yet what John saw in you - something stupid, probably.  
However, you throw these worries away because Deacon, that John Deacon! - is kissing you and it’s the most tasteful kiss you’ve ever experienced.  
Your mouths clash against each other and he murmurs a shy _‘sorry’_ when he accidentally bites your lower lip; it doesn’t hurt, contrariwise it makes you feverish even more - as if it isn’t enough, it won’t never be enough, this slow dance of yours.  
In exchange, you lick his lips maliciously, a way to ask to open himself a little more, so that your tongues can interlace one with the other, in a now more messy, irrational contact; you’re the most aggressive, but John never stays behind, not passive nor compliant.  
He restrains your being passionate as if he’s already used to it, used to your needs because, it’s obvious, you always want it all, scared that the time will reserve you a bad ending.  
But then, it comes his gracious patience, contagious with the kiss, because it slowly makes you relax and you can’t help but caress his face as a proof that it’s really happening, _an incontrovertible truth you’re both experiencing._  
And there’s something incredible soppy in how he melts under your touch, under those rare expressions of tenderness of your, however if you want to make fun of him, you should probably joke about yourself too.  
You’re in this together and John knows it well because he’s finally look at you as if you’re just felt in his silent, yet dangerous trap.  
_Is that what love is? Feeling trapped in a sweet sense of hopelessness? Loosing yourself a bit, exposed to someone else? If so, it’s not so bad, it’s like you - unpredictable, wild and that makes you feel alive._  
  
«That was...»  
«Cool.» «Sexy.»  
A mix of voices, music and light heartedness that makes John giggle a bit, trying to hide his funny laugh behind his own hands.  
Unusual, but not annoying - on the contrary, you love the sound of his goofy laugh - as a glimpse of genuine spontaneity.  
It’s something you’ve never care for before, but it’s useless to compare your former relationships with this; as John said about himself, he may is ordinary, however he has things that you didn’t find in any other girl in the past.  
A smart sarcasm, unique in its own way, he’s not afraid to confront you if necessary and you long for it - for the mutual understanding, but the honesty too, because that’s what you seek in a partner, no need for a condescending dog.  
«How? _‘Cool’_ is the only thing you can say after that?»  
You ask ironically, faking an offended expression that he finds unexpectedly hilarious; and he laughs again, loudly, and his voice is the only thing that echoes in the room now that the music is over.  
And you like it, like being alone with him, making him laugh, even if he’s probably overreacting to make you feel proud of your own sense of humour. But you’re okay with it, one sincere smile a day is enough to feel satisfied.  
«You’re the one who said the wrong word. What’s exactly sexy about the kiss we shared?»  
«You. And this.»  
You don’t know why you do it, if it’s a proper gesture between you two, but you can’t resist and a brief smack on his bottom resounds in the room. He’s really wearing a bloody tight pair of trousers and you may begin to like too much what you’re seeing.  
  
«If you say so...»  
John lowers his head embarrassed, mad or something in between, getting back to his work with the amp; a strange silence falls again in the room and you wait one, two, or more seconds before speaking, but then you can no longer stand that unexpected quietness.  
«I hope you’re not questioning your sexiness here, Deaky, because it’s foolish of you.»  
«So...it’s _Deaky_ , now?»  
John looks you in the eyes, deeply, beyond your layers of clothes and skin, he undresses your soul with only one gaze and you feel naked, unprotected, while he’s challenging you with one of those enigmatic smiles of his.  
«But...I-Fred, I-»  
«I like it, it sounds nice when you say it.»  
He whispers, brushing a wild lock of hair from his face, and you have nothing more to add, except for a shy squeak, followed by your now rosy cheeks.  
You’re not blushing, no, Roger Taylor never blushes.  
Ok...maybe sometime.  
 

♛♛♛

  
  
The kitchen smells of tea and fresh pastries - bought by you a couple of minutes ago, under the falling snow and the coldness of the season.  
It’s a sacrifice you beared with pleasure because you’re already waiting to see a familiar face near the door - with a kind smile and sleepy eyes - and a part of you is unexpectedly nervous about it.  
You finally accepted your flexible heterosexuality - even if you don’t know how you should call it - and spending time with John is nice, more than you’ve ever expected.  
You’re not yet accustomed to the yellowish sunrise view, but eating breakfast and smoking the first cigarette of the day together is what you like the most.  
And now you stay still on a chair, a hot mug of coffee in your hands and a neglected cup of black tea in front of you, waiting for its respective owner.  
It’s stupid, you know it, imagining that everything will be always like this between you two, but for now you want to go straight, trying a real, mature relationship, even if you don’t like useless labels and rules.  
That’s what you are and John seems to stand your bad personality.  
  
«Oh my, Roger, did you make all this for me?»  
There’s something strange in his voice, and when you look up it’s not exactly John’s face what you find near the door.  
An elegant nightshirt, a cigarette between his fingers and a smile - a sarcastic, malicious smile.  
«You know that I will tell this to the world, right? I can’t believe you made breakfast for our Deaky; this isn’t you, Roger.»  
That bastard laughs at you and there are so many words you'd like to say, but you just sigh, a bit embarrassed because he will speak about it for days, with everyone, really.  
«Fuck off, Fred. Now sit here and make a deal.»  
«I’m okay with it. Pay my silence with these delicious cannoli. I swear solemnly.»  
You already know that he spill it out as soon as John or Brian will come in, but that’s life - and a part of you may not dislike the idea to flaunt this new thing with everyone.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr - @awesomeakimi
> 
> Someone has to tell me John's eyes colour because I'm mad AF. A fansite say grey/green, but Mazzello in the movie has brown eyes, so ??? hey ?? what the hell. Has he got that kind of strange eyes with different colours depending on the light ?? (Very common for the green/blue ones, but his eyes aren't 100% green, come on)  
> And don't link me photos because as much as I like seeing photos about Deacon (lol), I can't understand it anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> \- @awesomeakimi - on Tumblr  
> If you have any prompts/ideas, ask without problems.


End file.
